The Road to Lisbon (33 page)

An Auld corner – flicked on – just missed. Inter counterattack with a high ball – Simpson has advanced right out of his area!

“Oh mammy-daddy,” says Iggy as he covers his face. “I can’t watch!”

Then, something marvellous happens. The Celtic keeper does a spontaneous impression of Pelé, back-heeling the ball to Clark, totally outfoxing the advancing Domenghini.

“Olé!”

“I can’t believe my eyes – did he just do that?”

“Beautiful Ronnie! B-b-beautiful!”

Chalmers threads the eye of a needle to feed Johnstone, who energetically chases the ball to the byeline and is fouled by Picchi.

Mauro Bicicli kicks the ball, which had gone out of play, away.

“That’s pure terrible you!”

“Play the game!”

“B-b-behave!”

“BOOO!”

Rocky whistles in derision, the referee has a word with the Italian.

A hopeful shot by Murdoch flies over, then the half-time whistle sounds.

The players walk towards the tunnel at the bottom right-hand corner of the stadium. I do not look at them. My eyes are fixed on one man. Tschenscher. An Inter
player tosses him the ball. He catches it and they exchange a joke. The linesmen trot over and flank him as he follows the players towards the tunnel. A couple of my players rub their thumb and
forefinger together.

“Was it Lire or dollars they paid you to give that fuckin’ penalty?”

Tschenscher looks away. I am matching him stride for stride now, just 10 yards to the right of him. As the tunnel approaches, suddenly, I am on him. In his face. Finger jabbing
furiously. “You’re a Nazi bastard,” I scream. “A cheatin’ Nazi bastard! That was never a penalty. I know it and you know it.”

He looks at me in disbelief. The colour drains from his face.

“You gonnae get your villa out of this then, eh? Cut into the cliff somewhere on the Adriatic? Nice wee hide away for a cheat like yourself, eh?”

He tries to ignore me, skips down the stairs two at a time. I take them three at a time. Always one step ahead.

“If we lose this game then it will be down to you. You will have cheated us out of what is rightfully ours. And if that happens then I’ll drag your fuckin’ name
through the mud.”

The linesmen are between us now but Herrera has become involved, too. The Argentinean is wildly gesticulating, jabbing his finger in my chest, ranting in Spanish.

“And here’s another cheat. What’s the collective noun for a group of cheats, eh?” I shout, but Herrera is giving as good as he gets.

“Your players are dirty, cheatin’ bastards. And you’re a cheat. You and your big German pal there,” I shout, pointing to Tschenscher. “Cash changed
hands, has it? I know your history.” Herrera is ready to swing for me now. My dukes are up. Burnbank v Buenos Aires. But now the linesmen are dragging him away. He disappears into the
dressing room. The officials vanish, like rats into the sewer. Then it is quiet. And I am suddenly aware that I am alone. In the darkness. I take three deep breaths. Smile to myself. Job done. I
turn the handle on the door of the dressing room and enter.

Half-time. My time. I look around. Animated chat but no raised voices. The penalty has upset but not demoralised them. I’m actually beginning to suspect it was a penalty. It
certainly was a stupid challenge. Part of me wants to strangle Craig, but this is not the time or the place. The time for the truth will be later. When the cup is heading back to Celtic Park and
the pressure is off.

I stand stock still for 10 seconds. Let them become aware of my presence. When I speak, it is in measured, unhurried tones.

“Cairney, it was never a penalty. I know that, you know that, we all know that. It is gone. We cannot dwell on the one negative when there have been so many positives. We have
created plenty of chances. We are dominating the best team in the world. Luck has not been on our side at times but the breaks will come. Let’s not forget what we talked about. It is not easy
to get past that wall of defenders, so make sure we cut passes back from the edge of the area. That will help tease them apart. We have a great threat from those areas; guys like Tommy and Bobby
who can move onto balls and strike them cleanly. Most of all, don’t get frustrated. That’s what they want. Keep our heads up, our chests puffed out. Suck the air in through your noses
and out through your mouths. Keep driving at them. We can do that because we are younger than them, fitter than them, better than them. Look boys, I think today can be our day. Go out there and
win.”

Jimmy takes me aside as the players leave the dressing room: “Boss, I feel I’m not doing enough. Burgnich is all over me.”

“Jimmy, you are doing exactly what I’ve asked of you. If Burgnich is inside your jersey then it means that one of their best players is taken out the game. That leaves
space for others. Bobby, Willie and Stevie are running riot. Tommy and Jim are tearing up the flanks. Bertie hit the bar, Bobby’s dictating play. That’s all down to your good work.
You’re creating space for us to play.”

Jimmy nods. He gets it. He always gets it. He just needs to be reminded all the time.

Eddie and Rocky disappear on bar duties while Iggy and Mark score some ice-creams. I am left alone for a minute, time to loosen my collar, take my hat off for a moment and
scratch under my bandages, spark a fag, survey the scene, drink in the hubbub of excited voices, laced with anxiety.

“Mr Stein, I’m worried the heat will start to sap us. All that fantastic play and no goal.”

“It will come, son. It will come.”

Before we know it, the teams re-emerge. Celtic start the second half strongly and win a free-kick on the left edge of the Inter area as we look down. The ball is plopped into the danger area,
two Celtic players header it – a great chance; then Bedin makes a clumsy attempt at a clearance.

The whistle sounds.

“PENALTY!” shouts Rocky.

“HE’S G-GIVEN IT!” shouts Mark.

“YEEES!” shouts Eddie.

Everyone is jumping up and down excitedly. Apart from me. The ref is, in fact, signalling for an indirect free-kick, inside the area.

“Boys, boys – it’s no a penalty.”

They settle down, disbelief etched on their faces.

The free-kick is tapped back by Wallace to Lennox, but the ball is blocked. It spins out to Gemmell just outside the area – he shoots into the ruck of players, the ball takes a deflection
and bounces towards the line – goal!

“YYYEEE–”

But Sarti has somehow reached behind him to clutch the ball! Did it cross the line? All eyes on Tschenscher – play on!

“He’s not given it!” says Eddie. “He’s not given it!”

“Oh Jesus bloody wept!” exclaims Rocky as he turns and sinks to his knees, only to catch the eye of the curate standing behind us. “Sorry Father, excuse me.”

What a start to the second half, and what an atmosphere there is now, a constant crackle of noise.

“He’s given them a foul for fuck all,” moans Iggy.

“BOOO!”

Rocky whistles derisively.

“Come on lads,” I say, “let’s give the Bhoys a cheer.”

“Cel-tic, Cel-tic, Celt-ic.”

All five of us chant, and then the entire end, then the entire ground, follows suit, in the wistful two-note refrain:

CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC.

A moving swelling of noise, all started by me!

“Mazz-o-la, Mazz-o-la, Mazz-o-la” comes the feeble riposte.

“First time we’ve heard a peep out of you clowns!” shouts Iggy.

I was worried that the heat would drain us, but Celtic seem even more mobile than in the first half, more urgent. They are not tiring at all, just continuing their fast, incisive, confident
play. Better crossing into the box now, by Craig, then Gemmell – that’s the way!

The Inter number 4 feigns injury.

“BOOO!”

Water bottles come on.

Bedin pulls back Johnstone, who had stolen the ball from him. Johnstone then dribbles his way into the box, but his shot is charged down. Then Lennox puts in a great ball-winning tackle in the
middle of the field. Then Clark finds Lennox in the box. We seem to be able to attack from anywhere!

McNeill, Murdoch, lovely chip by Auld – flag’s up.

“Never offside!”

“Come on to g-grips ref!”

“BOOO!”

Good, patient, attacking play on Celtic’s right. We are winning every 50-50 tackle, chasing down every loose ball.

The ball is out of play for a goal-kick. A photographer is too smart in giving it back for Sarti’s liking – he’s furious!

“That says it all.”

“There’s 35 minutes left ya bloody disgrace!”

“BOOO!”

Gemmell now. Craig to Murdoch. Eleven men back. Fucking crowded out again.

Sixty minutes gone. I’ve never seen a match as one-sided as this. How the hell are we losing it? Mark sits down on the terracing step, puts his head in his hands, a look of despondency on
his face.

“What’s up, pal?”

“I’m t-tired. We’ve battered them for an hour. We’re never gonnae s-s-score.”

I place my hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t give up.”

He rises with a sigh, takes a swig of the wine I have offered him, smiles grimly.

It only takes a moment. When will our moment come? They are strung across the middle of the field now. Closing down every inch of space. Still we push
forward. Gemmell is tearing forward at every opportunity.

“Tam, pace yourself. Keep it tight, we’ll get them in extra-time.”

He turns to me: “Fuck that boss. It’s 85 degrees out here and we’re going to finish it here and now!”

I look at my watch. Sixty-three minutes gone. Then, it happens.

Clark finds Murdoch, who sprays it to Craig on the right of the area. Craig holds onto it.

Tap.

Gemmell starts a forward run. I see him build up a head of steam.

Tap.

Cut it back, son. Cut it back. Just like I told you . . .

And he does. A perfect lay-off for Gemmell. It is as if I am watching it in slow-motion. Gemmell hits it. Hits it sweeter than he has ever hit anything in his life. It leaves his
boot like a missile. Explodes past Sarti. Rips into the net. I am off the bench. Sean grabs me. Then Neilly. The stadium erupts.

Craig and Gemmell. Two full-backs. Combining to such beautiful effect.

It only takes a moment. Our moment has come.

We’ve broken them.

“Sweet Jesus, we’ve scored!” I gasp. “Oh sweet Mother of Christ!”

The next minute or so is a blur. I find myself half a dozen steps down the terracing from my original position. I push my way back to my pals, being hugged and kissed by strangers, by the Irish
bhoys, by the lads from Barra, by the folk from Duntocher and Wyndford. I reach my friends and embrace them.

We’ve broken them. Good God Almighty, we’ve broken them.

CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC.

As my men celebrate I cannot take my eyes off the Inter players. I watch as Sarti picks the ball slowly out of the net. Like an old woman picking up a bag of
spilt groceries. He hands it to Picchi. The Inter captain’s face is a picture of disbelief. He is looking at the ball and looking back at Sarti’s goal. As if he cannot believe how this
spherical object reached the back of the net. Their players look around at each other. They look horrified. But they look something else. They look tired. Inter are gone. Mentally and physically
crushed.

Vecchia inter, vecchia Inter, vecchia Inter.

I turn to Sean: “I think we have just won the European Cup.”

He looks at me as if I have taken leave of my senses.

“There’s a long time to go, Jock. I’m surprised at you saying that.”

“Look at them, Sean, they are finished. Absolutely fucked. Their entire system is based on not losing goals. Not on scoring goals, but on keeping them out. They are finished.
Look at Herrera, Sean. I rest my case.”

We look at the Inter bench. Herrera is sitting, hands clasped to his face. His assistants are silent. A couple of players glance towards him, but the Argentinean still does not
move. Why? Not even Herrera can fix a broken system in just over 25 minutes.

Their players are over now, getting doused with water by the Inter trainer. Baking heat yet it is the swarthy Italians who are suffering the effects of the sun, not the peely wally
Scots.

“We still need to score another, though, Jock.”

“We’ll score, Sean. We’ll score.”

Craig, great through-ball to Murdoch. He shoots!

“Oooh, just over!”

“Twenty-five minutes left. We’ve got them now. LET’S DO THEM!”

“SHOVE YOUR DEFENDERS UP YOUR ARSE!”

“N-N-NOW LET’S SEE YOUS COME OUT INTER!”

“SARTI – YOUR TEA’S OUT YA TUBE! YOUS HAVE HAD IT!”

“Auld. FOULED! PENALTY!”

No, it’s obstruction. Indirect again. Just inside the box.

“WHAT DO WE HAVE TO DO TO GET A PENALTY REF?” shouts Rocky.

“THIS IS NEARLY AS BAD AS SCOLAND!”

Bertie to take. Straight at Sarti. Hoped for a ricochet.

Again we attack. A roar of encouragement. Ball blocked, spins out to Murdoch – oh what a shot and what a save – a left-foot volley from 20 yards just palmed over!

“How the fuck did he save that?” asks Iggy.

“J-J-J-Jesus, Tim. I th-th-thought that was it,” says Mark. “I th-thought that was it!”

Then a Gemmell trundling shot is saved – Sarti almost fumbles it and Chalmers was waiting to pounce.

Gemmell on a great roving run, shoots just over.

“What a game Gemmell’s having!”

“Aye, and John Clark too!”

For it’s a grand old team to play for,

It’s a grand old team to see,

And if, you know, your history,

It’s enough to make your heart go: o-o-o

We don’t care if we win, lose or draw,

What the hell do we care,

For we only know that there’s gonnae be a show,

And the Glasgow Celtic will be there!

Auld sends Johnstone down the middle – Sarti just gets there first. Corner-kick.